Joan Wilson, a business writer, lives up along the mighty Hudson and hopes after she is gone, she can still hear the music

We presented music to our girls in the same way we presented food — diversity was the norm and never was there any acknowledgement of “different” or cajolement to “just try it”. That our children developed a culinary breadth was evident from watching them consume sushi and vindaloo as readily as chicken nuggets. How they were internalizing their exposure to music was not as easily discernible.

One day when Maddy, our youngest, was 10, she accompanied me to that place of irrational consumerism, the mall. While we waited in line to make a purchase, Maddy suddenly and with some urgency insisted that she must go to the nearby record store. I started to suggest that she wait just a few minutes so that we could go together, but she was gone before I could finish my sentence.

In the short time she was gone, my brain ping-ponged between extreme discomfort that my 10-year-old was on her own in the mall and extreme curiosity about what CD was so compelling as to cause her to bolt. I had just finished my purchase when she returned clutching a small bag. Sixteen years later, remembering that moment when she opened the bag and pulled out a Miles Davis double CD compilation, I still bask in the feeling that all is right with the world.